


Those Donned in Suits

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reno loves his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Donned in Suits

Reno loves his job.

More specifically, Reno adores all aspects of his work— all fields, evey assignment, every wrap-up report, hell, he even digs the fancy suit he’s allowed to “class up” to his own will.

Most jobs are just a job, a fancy title to your name at most, maybe an office with your own little business cards to hand out at gatherings. But being a Turk isn’t just a job, it’s more of a lifestyle than anything, really. A way of seeing the world, a way of seeing yourself. 

It’s much more than the suit.

Not that Reno hasn’t realized this, but hey, not everyone can be so formal about doing all the stupid buttons on their collar. He’s decent enough, and he notes this as he slips his belt through careful loops, tightens it before plucking at his slacks, making sure they sit baggy and comfortable over his hips and down his legs, pool up against his boots. He’s not sloppy, he’s just a bit careless— if his four out of seven buttons actually fastened don’t give that away aready. But a Turk’s a Turk, and if the suit doesn’t give that much away, perhaps it’s the Electro-Mag Rod that dangles effortlessly from his wrist that shows his status.

Reno’s job is intense, this is fact. Turks are pretty fucked up, he thinks, if they’ve got no qualms with half the things they’re ordered to do. Offing offenders, bombing bases, they might seem extreme, but it’s a regular day. He’s got no problem tasing a few people who just so happen to be in his way and much too close to a nightstick for their own good, and he’s hardly phased with orders to plant a few explosives in a not-so-secret base. 

Just a normal day.

His favorite days, though (as much as he loves sending punks into convulsing fits on the ground with his EMR) are the days he’s ordered to deliver whomever to this destination for that assignment, so get the helicopter running and don’t you dare be late.

And never is he ever late, when flying is involved.

Goggles are snapped over his eyes, ponytail tugged tightly in place as he hops up into the familiar seat, leather creaking the softest bit as he leans way over to the left to snatch up his headset. He flips this switch, those switches, pulls that lever and presses these buttons with such precision he could probably start the damn thing blindfolded; but Reno (unlike his uniform) takes flying seriously, and he’d never risk an assignment for his own cockiness.

Because if he were to lose his license to fly, he might as well be a bird with no fucking wings.

The metal beast whirrs and roars to life with every motion of his fingers, every press of buttons and moving of levers. The radio hisses static through his headset, until there’s a tinny voice on the other end asking in oh-so many words when the hell he’s going to take off, there’s other things he’s got to do today.

“Can’t rush perfection.”

Whoever the hell he’s dropping off hops and wiggles their way into the helicopter, and permission to leave is granted. Reno always smiles at this part, making sure the throttle is open and clear for take-off. Ever so smoothly, he pulls up on the collective, pressing casually down on the pedal as the helicopter howls with life, rising up up up into the air. Though he should be paying a little more attention to pressing the cyclic forward, Reno can’t help that tiny look down he makes, watching as everything below gets smaller and smaller.

It reminds him of the first time he ever took off, shaky and completely fucking wobbly with the collective and the cyclic, but a fair take-off nonetheless. Up high into the endless blue of sky, away from the city, away from everything except for fresh air, the near-silent static in his ears that remind him he’s not hopelessly alone, even if it sometimes feels that way.

He reports his take-off then, gets an affirmative on heading out, and he presses forward without any hint of hesitation.

Reno’s job is fucked up in a lot of ways, but there are some aspects that aren’t as dark and grim as the rest of it.


End file.
